The Dangers of a London Fog
by Mortuis
Summary: Diagon Alley may not be the precise center of the wizarding world, but it's close enough for government work. Still, there are times the Ministry of Magic is not fully equipped to deal with arcane dangers. Wilfred enjoys being a simple shopkeeper.
1. A Quiet Cup of Tea

**A/N**: This is my first submission to fan fiction. Of course I do not own Diagon Alley or any of the characters you know in that universe. They belong to J.K.Rowling with my deepest respect. All I own is my contribution to that universe, which I hope you will read, enjoy, and review. Let me know if I should continue this little adventure or not...

Chapter One: A Quiet Cup of Tea

His name was Wilfred Phineas Muggworth and as far as anyone knew, he'd never in his life done a single thing to deserve it. Not that he particularly minded. It was just another item that blended seamlessly into the tranquil background of his life. It simply suited him.

He was currently the Proprietor of Muggworth's Apothecary and the Harvest Moon Tea Shoppe, Diagon Alley, London. He had taken the business over from his father, as had his father before him, and his grandfather, and great-grandfather, and so on. It was rumored that the first cup of tea ever served in England was by a Muggworth.

The Harvest Moon Tea Shoppe was a small, quiet, homey sort of place. It was the sort of place you took your gran for a cozy afternoon sit down. It was the sort of place you retreated to after a busy day's shopping, to recollect your wits and your strength. It was a place where young couples met for lunch to snatch a few minutes of peace away from the prying eyes of well-meaning parents. Everyone knew the Harvest Moon Tea Shoppe.

Equally well known was the attached Muggworth's Alchemical Apothecary. Separated from the Tea Shoppe by a clever arched doorway and two arched display windows of many small square panes, the illusion was created that from either side, the viewer was outdoors, looking into the front exterior of the other business. For diners at the Tea Shoppe, the impression was of sitting in a lovely outdoor bistro, while for the chemical shoppers, the view of the Tea Shoppe seemed cozy and inviting after this foray into a small outdoor marketplace.

Wilfred Muggworth sat at his accustomed table of the Tea Shoppe, towards the back, sipping his Darjeeling and smiling with a friendly nod at the many customers who glanced his way. Quietly dressed, for a wizard anyway, he sat in brown robes and forest green waistcoat, crisp white collar, and only the slightest smudges of chemical stains at the cuffs betraying his second greatest passion.

Because, for all of Wilfred's studied sang frond, he was after all a wizard of deep and abiding passion. Well, two passions really. The second was alchemy, research and development of potions and compounds of all sorts. His particular interest was in what had not been, or could not be, done. Since the Philosopher's Stone had been done, he had the notes and protocols for its manufacture. He'd even made and tested a small one once, but destroyed it upon successful completion of his research and journals. His interest lay only in alchemical incognita. Once known, his interest waned.

Yes, Wilfred was fascinated by the unknown. This led, logically enough, to his first passion which was – well, not to put too fine a point on it – Wilfred P. Muggworth was a spy.

Oh, he didn't get himself up in dress robes and go eavesdrop at gatherings of the mighty and mysterious. He really did not have to. Eventually, they all came to him. Whether for tea and a quiet meeting in an out of the way spot, or to acquire some critical reagent for a potion or powder, they all had to come to him. And he noticed. He noticed everything. That was perhaps Wilfred Muggworth's greatest personal gift – that he noticed everything, could remember it exactly if he chose to, and looked as if he were paying no attention at all. Like the old wizard wandmaker Ollivander, he or his father remembered every cauldron they had ever sold, from the standard Number one Pewter of the academic first year, to the finest crystal or platinum used only for the most arcane solutions.

His memory for transactions, conversations, voices, and faces, made him invaluable both as a research alchemist and as a spy. The Ministry of Magic knew him as the first, but had no idea of his true identity as the second. His career as a spy had begun about 20 years ago, with the beginnings of the rise of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

His father, William Muggworth, had still been proprietor of the family enterprise then. Wilfred had just finished at Hogwart's and was quietly working his way into his father's role. Not that it was a huge adjustment, as he'd been there every summer and holiday anyway, barring the month each summer he spent in the country with his grandparents.

His paternal grandparents, Hugo and Helga Muggworth had a farm in the north country where they raised many of the herbs and stocks needed to supply the Apothecary. Holidays with them were not so dull as they sounded, however, as their house elves and brownies were quite capable of seeing to the chores, and left the family free to travel widely searching out some of the rarest of reagents on the globe. In fact, the word "farm" was quite misleading and reference to the Muggworth homestead was more like a park, with various buildings dedicated to different climates and conditions. Magic maintained a tropical rainforest, a small desert island, and arctic tundra, all housed within half a kilometer from one another.

Trekking was the best with them, however. "The Grans", as Wilfred called them, would plan his trips with far more care than they ever let on to him, letting him think he'd just happened there as they made a routine supply run. Grandmother and her household elves delighted in preparing all his favorite foods and preserving the piping hot meals compressed in tiny preserving cubes about the size of a sugar lump. Each was coded with a number and letter that determined what day and meal of the day it was for – whether breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper – but with no clue as to its contents. It was Wilfred's task to release each cube at mealtime, so it was rather a Christmas Morning each time as he was surprised.

Wilfred reflected on his career and smiled to himself as he sat at his quiet table and thought back. In a rather odd way, it was the "Grans'" fault that he had become a spy. When he was little, their Treks had been fairly tame – Alpine herbs, jungle flowers or snake venom, strange fungi – remote locations enough for some sense of adventure, but no real danger. But as he grew into his teens, the adventures became a bit more real.

How many wizards, he wondered, chuckling, ever reflected on precisely how one acquires the ingredient "dragon's heart string"? Or dragon's claw, belly scale, blood or fang, for that matter? Now that, he recalled, was a memorable trip. Nowadays, with the Ministry regulating dragons so closely, some acquisitions were a bit easier, but not all components could be recovered from a cadaver. The tricky bit was not so much getting the component, as it was getting the component without harming the dragon. Well, actually, the really tricky bit was _surviving_ getting the component without harming the dragon. Unharmed dragons, on the whole, tended to resent your getting most components at all. No… Wizards never ask "how?" They just ask "how much?", and then they complain when you tell them.

Yes, some Treks had been most memorable. And he sipped his tea, beginning to recall his most harrowing...


	2. What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Chapter Two: "What I Did on my Summer Vacation"

His mind cast back to his school days. It was the summer before his final year at Hogwart's. The Grans had planned a Trek into the dark mountains of Transylvania to collect some components from a particularly nasty species of vampire bat, along with some herbs, and perhaps some werewolf glands should the opportunity arise. It was a truly dangerous trip, and one they had never made with him until now. His Defense Against the Dark Arts knowledge would be tested here, as Boggarts weren't the worst hazards they may meet.

They set off on a bright July morning, arrived at their base camp deep in a densely pine wooded Transylvanian forest, dark as night though it was already mid day here, and spent the time until sundown setting up and making preparations for the month. The stuffy closeness and heat of the steamy breathless pine scent was almost overwhelming. These trips were half safari, half laboratory inventory. An incredible amount of information was collected and cataloged with each specimen so that the eventual reagent could be properly sorted and sold by type, class, and potency. Over the years, Wilfred had taken over ever greater responsibility for this documentation, only dimly aware and not at all resentful of the fact that he was following the path of generations of training as proprietor of Muggworth's Apothecary. It had always been felt that the Muggworth of the time should fully have mastered every aspect of the art.

This particular night of hunting had begun like the previous three since they'd arrived. Wilfred had his receiving area all prepared in his tent for their acquisitions. They had conjured a cloud of bovine blood mist as bait, above a small clearing they used for their hunting space. They'd transfigured some logs into cattle and set them floating, sleepy and comfortable, in the midst of the cloud. The bats could smell and be attracted to the blood, but without a solid target for their radar, they would just flit back and forth about the edges of the cloud without entering the field of fire. Of course, while they were superb hunters, fliers, and could "see" flawlessly in complete darkness, they were not particularly bright, else the concept of "floating cows" may have given them pause. As it was, they'd fly in and settle down to feed on the cattle as happy as bats ever get.

The next thing heard by the bat's super ultrasonic hearing would be – "STUPEFY" – coming from three directions at once, as light blazed forth from three Muggworth wands, and they'd spin gently to the ground rather like maple tree seeds helicopter to the earth on a summer day.

The hunters could then set quickly to work, extracting, containing and labeling one salivary gland, some wing membrane, fur, claw, and a bit of earwax painlessly from each. A quick wand flash and "ENNERVATE" would send each on his or her way, a bit confused, but none the worse for wear. In thanks, they were in fact allowed to feed unmolested before the trap was reset for another go. The care they took meant they could only do two rounds a night, but at 20-25 bats per round the stores were filling nicely.

Their fifth night of hunting was interrupted by the howls of werewolves not far away. This was not entirely unexpected, as the lunar cycle was factored into the trip plan and this was the first night of the truly full moon. Every year, Wilfred had drilled on the danger escape plan. He knew, if he felt afraid or on the command of either Gran, to run inside the lab tent or any tent, and grab a particular lantern that faintly glowed in red. The lanterns were port keys that would transport him and the tent around him instantly to the back yard of the Farm.

When he was little, the Grans had made the escape drill something of a game to take the fear out of it. One of them would shout, "DANGER! GO HOME!" and he was to run to the closest Port Key Lantern and activate it, then run to the kitchen of the Farm. If he could get to the kitchen before they apparated there – and they always gave him a little head start – then Grandmother would cook his very favorite dessert of apple dumplings. They seemed to have great confidence in him, as she always had the pans all prepared for the oven when they arrived.

Over the years they had drilled less and used the escape plan more for real situations. He was to escape when he sensed danger he could not identify. The Grans were great believers in following his instincts. They felt you had survival senses built in, that your mind could not always keep up with. As he had gotten older and more capable, the Treks had become more dangerous and, of course, much MUCH more fun.

Even as he hearkened intently to the baying of the werewolves, he winced to recall one of the few times he'd ever gotten in trouble on these trips...

-----------

He had been 15 and about to have a birthday, he'd made Prefect of Ravenclaw House, and had made 12 Excellent ratings on his O.W.L. examinations. Nearly perfect recall on demand made examinations much easier for him than for others, but it was still a great deal of reading and listening, just not nearly as much study. The faculty had agreed not to make his attainments public, as Muggworth's traditionally preferred modesty if not anonymity. Still, knowing his abilities there was much head shaking and "tut, tutting" among faculty, thinking of his destiny as a "shopkeeper" in their view. He smiled as he reflected, "if they only knew…"

Still, at 15 he felt pretty capable in a scrap, even if he was not yet licensed to disapparate. They were camped in the extreme northwest of the Canadian wilderness, when they were suddenly set upon by two packs of monstrous warg wolves. Rather than running for a Port Key Lantern, he instinctively grabbed his wand to do battle with the Grans.

"DANGER! GO HOME!" rang his grandfather's husky voice.

"I can fight!" he yelled back.

His grandfather turned to him in shock. "Boy! Go NOW! NO ARGUMENT" in a tone and with a look the brooked no retort.

Wilfred cut and ran for their collection tent to be sure their stock all got back safely, and then waited miserably in the kitchen for their return. He was in trouble and he knew it.

About an hour later they appeared in the kitchen with him, looking a bit disheveled and tired, but safe and unhurt. He expected to be yelled at, though that did not happen very often. But they were totally silent as Grandfather sat down at the table with him, and Grandmother put the kettle on for tea. He should have done that already, he thought miserably. No one smiled, no one said a word. Grandfather just sat there in his dark clothing and bristly gray hair, gently drumming his fingertips on the tabletop and looking concerned at his grandson.

Finally, Wilfred broke the silence, "I… I'm sorry. I guess I'll get my things packed to go home. I… I don't know what came over me. I know better than that."

His grandparents smiled.

Grandfather said, "yes. Yes, you know better."

Grandmother turned to him and said, "Yes, and you should know 'what came over you' as well" She nodded as she smiled. "Your grandfather and I talked a bit before coming back. A wizard should always know what he is feeling, since feelings direct magic far more than thoughts, and certainly more than spoken words. Let's see if I can sum up what 'came over you', and you tell me if it rings as true…

"You're a big boy now, not a little kid anymore. You've just passed your O.W.L.'s with flying colors. You can duel with the best of them, fly like a seeker, concoct potions the rest of your classmates could scarcely imagine, you know and have hunted most magical creatures on a first name basis, and you've been fighting or evading Dark Arts for years. You could turn rings around most of your classmates, if not your teachers, but your name is Muggworth and they think you're a bookworm. That and your voice is changing and you yodel, and you're breaking out in acne. And on top of all that…" her voice steadily raised as she expressed his frustration…

"Then to top it all off, we tell you to run away home like a little kid. It's just not bloody fair, is it?" she looked at him with her crooked little smile and her head cocked slightly askew, rather like the bright piercing glance of a clever bird. "And to top it all, we're OLD! And we could be hurt while you sit safe at home!" she laughed.

"That's it, Grandmama!" Wilfred exclaimed, pounding his palm on the table in agreement. "Well," he paused with an embarrassed grin, "except for that last bit. Ye may be old, but yer old like dragons. I think ye just get more dangerous and canny with time.

"But what you said before… I felt like a coward to run. And I thought I could hold my own. And I wanted to help. I'm just not… not a little kid anymore."

"Of course yer not, son," his grandfather said, getting up and coming around the table to pat him on the shoulder. "And we rely on you on these trips now more than you realize. You really carry your weight. Grandmama and I would probably only yield half of our cargo were you not with us.

"The Escape procedure though, has nothing at all to do with your talent or even your ability to fight. We have great confidence in you. It simply has to do with one thing – you are not yet 17, and so cannot yet disapparate, and we can. If we get into a scrap we're not certain about, we want to know that you and the stock are clear first. Then we are free to fight or flee as we see fit. We would never disapparate before you were clear, so your using the Port Key makes us safer than our having to cover your escape," as he sat back down, watching Wilfred intently to be certain he was understood.

Grandmama brought cups and saucers, sugar, lemon, cream, and finally the teapot to the table and poured. "Now, as to packing for home, don't you want to come back to Canada with us?" she smiled sweetly as she poured. "I rather thought we'd just have a nice cuppa before we headed back. Well, that and this little chat, of course."

"Certainly, I want to go back. If you'll have me, that is…" Wilfred replied breathlessly.

"Well, Wilfred," Grandpapa answered, "that depends on only one thing. I want your word, your word as a Muggworth, that this will never happen again. That if either of us command it, you will immediately escape. No matter what you see, hear, feel, or think. Agreed?"

"Agreed. I give you my word as a Muggworth," and he reflected, the Word of a Muggworth – seldom given, never broken.

"Fine. We'll finish our tea and head back then. Grandmama? Would you pass me that biscuit tin? I feel a bit peckish," he said, reaching for the snacks, and the matter was never spoken of again.

----------------------

The close howl of a nearby werewolf or warg snapped him back to the matters at hand. This Transylvania trip was different. All had been moving along like clockwork. The howling of the distant werewolves interrupted matters while all waited to see if they would approach or disrupt the camp. When midnight came and went without incident, they decided to make one more collection before dawn. As the last of the bats were being released, the moon had set and the eastern sky was beginning to lighten a shade along the horizon. In deep woods as they were, they could not so much "see" this, as feel the approach of dawn, and with it the relief of lessened vigilance in that part of the world.

But then something strange, a creeping sense of dread and darkness began to steal over the three of them. Wilfred looked at his grandfather, who looked around them very carefully, seeming to pierce the very darkness with his steely gaze.

"I feel it too, Boy," he murmured quietly. "Get your hand near that Port Key there, but hold off hitting it unless we say to, or you want to go. I want to know more about this. I'd like your impressions too. This is new to me, and that's saying something."

And that was saying something, indeed. The Grans were well over 100, though unbent, unfaltering, and as healthy as horses. They looked like Muggles in their mid 50's with only their hair and the lines around their eyes giving hint of their true age. There was no dark or forbidden magic involved in their health. Potions masters both, they attended closely to their bodies' needs and provided them promptly. They were both from long-lived families of wizards, who as a class tend to be long lived, and the Farm assured that they maintained a healthy level of activity and exercise.

So Wilfred also looked deeply into the darkness, while keeping a hand near the Port Key if needed. Gradually, all the little hairs on their arms and backs of their necks rose up as if from a chill, but it was not cold that set them rising. Fear became an atmosphere that threatened to smother them all. It seemed to become darker as an inky cloud came to settle into their bloodmist trap. They all remained perfectly still as this inky darkness swirled like a mist through their cloud. The bait cows were totally enveloped and occluded by the darkness. An odd sighing sound, a sururatiron, seemed to issue from the darkness, not quite breathing, but seemingly alive.

After a time, tendrils of mist seemed to reach out and down. As they reached the tents and accoutrements of the camp, all color seemed to drain from what the mist fingers touched, gradually turning objects gray.

Grandpapa looked straight at Wilfred and quietly commanded, "Danger. Go Home Now."

And Wilfred instantly touched the red glowing lamp. As he headed for the kitchen at the Farm, he saw his grandparents apparate just ahead of him.

"I will start the kettle this time, Grandmama. I feel chilled to the bone. What was that?"

"I have no earthly idea, Wilfred. I've never seen anything like it before. That's why I stayed so long. What about you, hon? Any ideas?" she asked, turning to her husband as they headed into the kitchen doorway through the mudroom. After wiping their feet thoroughly, the Grans took Wilfred at his word and sat down at the table, leaving the tea preparation to him.

Wilfred pulled out his wand and ignited a cheery fire in the firebox of the stove. He had special permission from Hogwart's and the Ministry of Magic to use magic when he was with his grandparents. At their request he had something of a "student work permit" as long as he was with them and under their supervision.

As he poured hot water to warm the pot and got down cups and saucers, he tried to think through everything he'd ever heard or read that might shed light on what he had just seen. While a few ideas occurred to him, he held his silence, listening to two of the greatest hunters on the face of the earth while they compared notes.

"Can't be Dementors, they suck consciousness and emotions…" Grandpapa mused, chin in his hand, vacantly staring out the kitchen window into the deep darkness of the earlier time zone, as his free hand drummed soft fingertips on the table.

"Aye, dear," responded his wife, equally vacant of expression, "these were clearly vampiric. They took the blood and cattle first, even the little bats, bless their hearts". She looked sorrowful, musing on the lost life. "But that at the end… those tendrils, that was interesting indeed."

"Interesting… yes. But no doubt deadly. What do you make of the color change? What do you think we'll find when we return?" he asked, his voice still abstracted.

_Return_, Wilfred repeated to himself, as his heart leapt with joy. He quietly poured the boiling water into the teapot, as he continued to eavesdrop on their conversation. He had seen them like this before, and knew that as long as he did not speak or make any startling noise or movement, their minds and words would link and think like a well oiled machine… it came of 80 years of marriage and hunting. But he was delighted to know that they would be returning. He was afraid they might have decided to abandon the hunt because of the possible danger to him.

"Honestly? I think we will find ash. Or possibly nothing at all. The color change was most interesting. It seemed to affect the organics first, did you notice? Specimens and our food pouches first, then leather and natural fabrics, the wood about, then the synthetics. About that time, we left, it was getting too close for my taste," she replied.

"Indeed, mine too. Not to mention that it was damned uncomfortable…" Grandpapa looked up at Wilfred. "Oops, sorry, Boy. Forgot you were there," Grandpapa smiled embarrassed.

"That was my plan, Grans," Wilfred smiled back. "I love listening when ye do that." He served the tea and brought down the biscuit tin, setting it down in front of Grandpapa as he lowered himself into his own chair and poured out. "I've never felt fear like that. The cold was terrible, but the fear nearly became panic and almost seemed like an odor or a fluid of some kind. It was bizarre."

"Yes. Yes it was. And you've put your finger on it indeed, Wilfred. That fear did almost seem like a fluid, didn't it?" Grandmama agreed, with some excitement. "Acted like a pheromone of some sort, didn't it, dear?" she asked, looking at Grandpapa.

"Yes. Do you suppose it is functional in some way? Could it be a part of their feeding? Or is it a byproduct?" Grandpapa mused, as his mind clicked along like the bioalchemist that he was.

"Well, it would certainly be functional in any natural feeding situation, dear. If that… that… whatever-it-was settled onto a natural herd of some kind, they would rapidly be paralyzed and unable to escape," Grandmama replied. While a frighteningly capable alchemist as well, her talents leaned more towards the intuitive and behavioral. While her husband focused more on the composition or the causes of alchemical reactions, she focused more on the impact or the effects of compounds especially on living systems.

"Um…" Wilfred muttered, almost unconsciously, as he sipped his tea.

"What is it, Wilfred?" Grandmama asked, looking at him with interest. "Feel free to speak up," she smiled gently, sipping her own tea.

"Yes, Wilfred," added Grandpapa with a smile. "I was serious about wanting your input."

"Oh, sorry… actually. I didn't mean to speak really. My mind just snagged on the obvious difficulty I see with a pheromone theory… But I know you didn't mean it literally. It's just that it highlights a rather knotty problem altogether with this, this, whatever-it-is, doesn't it?" his voice and eyes took on a clearly family resemblance with three pairs of knitted brows.

"Indeed," nodded Grandmama.

"Quite," echoed Grandpapa.

"After all," Wilfred murmured. "Pheromones require glands to secrete them. And this thing had…"

"No physical body at all…" Grandmama finished his sentence.

"Nope, not a bit. Quite a puzzle." Grandpapa agreed.

"Fascinating," Grandmama smiled.

"Indeed," Grandpapa smiled back.

Wilfred just shook his head and smiled as well, wondering what he'd be like in his second century of life. He hoped it would be just like this, and they finished their tea in silent musing.

The long adult Wilfred was startled as his recollections were interrupted by the tinkle of the Apothecary's little bell, marking the entrance of a customer or visitor. As he absently looked up to observe, seeming not to pay much attention, he was delighted to see his parents enter his shop.


	3. Invitation to Dinner

Chapter Three: An Invitation to Dinner

His childhood seemed two lifetimes ago, now. His parents currently did the Trekking for rare specimens, the Grans having somewhat retired to continue with research and development at the Farm.

As Wilfred had not yet married and "settled down" as Mother put it, there were no grandchildren available for his parents to usher about the world. They settled for offering fortnight field trips in the summer holidays for N.E.W.T. potions and herbology students recommended by the Hogwarts faculty.

The Grans had not yet solved the mystery of the Vampiric Mist. At least they had settled on a title for it. After their discussion over tea, they had written up a brief report on what they'd seen, felt, and speculated, and Grandpapa rapidly circulated it among a select group of colleagues they knew well from the Ministry of Mysteries, Ministry of Magical Creatures, Hogwarts, and even Ministry of Enforcement. While all were very interested, and even a bit dismayed at the report, none had anything particularly helpful to offer. Apparently, an attack of this sort had never been witnessed before.

They had returned to their campsite the following day, as the Grans wanted to restock and rest up, expecting to find nothing usable upon return. Wilfred suspected they also wanted to provide ample time for the Vampiric Mist – as they had decided to name it – to clear off and find better hunting grounds.

They had been wise to restock. There was nothing usable, or even recognizable, as their campsite upon their return. Only metallic parts remained. The earth beneath what had been their tents was now black and barren, and every bit of non metallic material had simply vanished into thin air. Even the metallic surfaces were covered with a fine film of dullness, not quite a dust, but as though they had been acid-etched. The Grans carefully collected samples of the residue, swabbing metallic surfaces from all over the camp. But they then levitated all the metal materials into a single pile, and destroyed it utterly. There was nothing there, they said, that they could not replace, and they wanted no possible contamination to survive.

The rest of that trip was quite uneventful, and the Mist never reappeared. It was hard to tell if that was a good or a bad thing, because while the Mist was clearly the most dangerous thing they'd ever come up against, the Grans passionately wanted to learn more about it.

These concluding thoughts passed through Wilfred's mind as he made his way to his parents from the Tea Shoppe. He had not been expecting his parents to visit today, but they were likely to pop in anytime, and always welcome.

"Welcome, Mother… Father…" he called cheerfully as he reached them. He and his mother kissed gently on both cheeks, and his father and he shook hands warmly.

"Hello, Son," smiled his father, as he nodded a friendly glance around at all the clerks and assistants who had served him faithfully for so many years of his own tenure there. Some of the younger employees had not had the pleasure, but were glad to see him all the same. It was nice to work for a family who truly got along as well as this one did.

"What brings you our way this fine day?" Wilfred asked, taking his mother's arm and drifting along through the aisles of display carts that comprised their "marketplace" of a shop.

"Oh, just checking up on stock, and seeing if you need any supplies…" his father replied.

"Yes, that, and a little shopping at Madame Millikan's dressmaker's", laughed his mother.

"Ah!" Wilfred flashed a knowing grin towards his father. Mother had always been a bit of a clothes horse. Not unduly vain, and she more than held her own while trekking, but she definitely preferred the feminine and fashionable to the strictly neat and functional.

"Yes," added his father. "And to extend a dinner invitation to you for tomorrow night, if you are free." The senior Muggworth then dropped his voice into a tone only his son would hear, lest they were still being observed by casual passersby. "Your friend Draden will be coming along, too. He'd like to have a word in private."

Wilfred's eyes flashed with sudden understanding, but his head merely nodded cheery acquiescence as he replied, "of course, I'd be delighted to come to dinner. What can I bring along?"

"A girlfriend?" quipped his mother, quick as a flash. It was their standing joke; the "time for him to settle down" thing. They just wanted grandchildren, and he knew it. But they were satisfied that he take his time

"Er… no. Not at this time, Mother dear," he laughed back. "She still eludes me, I fear. But when I find her, you'll be the first to know. I promise."

"Fair enough then. In that case, just bring your pleasant self and perhaps a nice bottle of wine. We'll have a jolly evening, and I'll show off my new frock. And now we must dash, my dear. I think it should be just about ready." She turned towards the exit of the shop. "Are you ready, dear?" turning towards her husband.

"Yes indeed, everything looks well stocked here. We'll see you for dinner tomorrow then. Eight o'clock, but come for drinks at six if you're free, son," Muggworth concluded, as he took his wife's arm.

"Perfect, Father. Sounds lovely. I'll enjoy the evening very much. See you then," Wilfred said as he escorted them to the door and opened it for them politely.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he said quietly to his staff, as they hovered at a polite but attentive distance near the door, in case they were needed to provide any service to the collective Muggworths. He saw them all flush slightly and incline their heads in the slightest of bows as they returned to their duties and he returned to his tea. As they paired off to chat quietly he could hear a senior clerk comment that Father was the kindest of masters, and was amused and admittedly pleased to hear one of the more junior protest that none could be kinder than he, Wilfred, was. This was amicably settled by another with the old adage, "apple not far from the tree", and all returned to their work.

So Draden had something for him, did he? Wilfred's demeanor never changed, though his heart and mind were racing. Draden was his conduit into the Ministry. For Draden to seek a "quiet chat" meant that his unique talents were needed for an investigation. Whether as an alchemist, a spy, or both was yet to be determined. Yes, he would enjoy his dinner tomorrow very much, indeed.


	4. In a Quiet Cottage

Chapter Four - In a Quiet Cottage

Candles glowed brightly throughout the comfortable sitting room where a lovely young lady sat stirring a medium-sized cauldron over a tripod and flame. Well, at least she seemed like a lovely young lady, at least until you got a look at her eyes. Her deep gray eyes gave some reflection of her true age. Both her true age, and her true nature.

The gray eyes of Moira Culhane looked dead. They looked both dead, and dangerous. Like the eyes of a cadaver who has refused to release from life entirely. A description, in fact, not too far from the truth.

She sat, gently humming tunelessly, as she waved her wand above her cauldron in a stirring motion and watched as bubbles began to generate a gentle mist from the liquid surface. Carefully, she removed the stopper from a small crystal vial and suspended it, inverted, over the cauldron. Her wand motions began to usher the fumes into the vial, and she continued patiently to herd the tenuous wisps upwards into their glittering enclosure until the cauldron hissed empty over the flame. She blew out the lamp beneath the cauldron as she continued to hold the vial inverted in her left hand.

Then she put down her wand and gently grasped the blade of a silver knife that sat, seemingly awaiting her attentions. Standing the knife up by its handle, caressing its blade and hilt, she drew her middle finger across its point, drawing blood. A small gasp of pain escaped her lips, almost amazed that she could still feel pain, and she gently lowered the knife back to the table.

Delicately, she reached towards the crystal stopper for the vial, and deposited the drop of blood from her finger onto the surface that would enter the enclosure, being careful not to stain any of the exterior surface. When she was certain that the blood droplet stood perfectly on the inside of the stopper, she used her clean right thumb and index finger to pick the stopper up, and raise it to the inverted vial opening.

"Let this give you life," she whispered, as the stopper sealed the vial, and the mist contained within took on a brilliant ruby hue. It was as though the blood drop somehow fed the fumes, and they swirled through the container as though animate.

Barely audible incantations sealed the vial, as she arose to place it in a cabinet along the wall, in company with several other such vials. After closing the cupboard, she went to the sink to wash her injured finger and put a piece of plaster on it. She was drained and exhausted. Too tired even to use the small magic it would have taken to heal the petty injury. Besides, a wound made with that knife was not so simple an injury, and would have required more concentration than she had available.

She sat down at a rocking chair she kept near the fireplace and relaxed. Waving her wand gently, she materialized a cup of tea on the small table alongside her. Her head leaned back on her long slender neck as she closed her eyes and let the fire's warmth fill her. She always seemed cold. Even in the heat of summer, her house and her body seemed chill.

Slowly she opened her eyes and allowed them to wander about the room. Her belongings seemed framed by the antique furniture they rested on. The room was not cluttered, but not sparse either. It seemed balanced and tastefully laid out. Books in cabinets lined two walls. Her sitting area formed a small cluster about the large stone hearth and fire that dominated the central wall in front of her. The doorway to her left led to the dining room and kitchen, and from there on around to the bedrooms. The fireplace and chimney formed the center of the structure, and the chimney was shared by all the central rooms, including her bedroom.

On the two walls not occupied by bookshelves, paintings of her progenitors hung in quiet dignity. Her eyes came to rest on her mother's kindly face. Maude, she was named. The last of the fools in her line.

Maude it was who believed it was their duty as witches to care for the muggles who shared the world. Maude, the wise woman and healer of the woods. She was a great witch, or could have been anyway, if she'd not wasted so much of her time worrying about muggles and their petty ailments. Such command she had, of herbs, incantations, and the making of potions and talismans.

Maude had passed most of her skill on to her daughter Moira. Her skill, she succeeded in transferring, but not her heart. Moira had never completely accepted the noblesse oblige of her gifts. She did not understand why Maude was satisfied to live in a comfortable but small cottage in the beautiful green woods outside their little Irish village. The villagers and surrounding farmers were shallow and brutish in her, Moira's, view. The few times Moira went shopping with her mother to the village, even as a little girl she noticed that the people would step aside or look away as they passed.

The village children had never played with her, nor even spoken to her when their parents could prevent it. But so many times, in the dark of night, a cart had driven up to their cottage, always with little gifts of eggs, or pork, or a chicken or two, and some pathetic villager would stand there crushing his hat in his hands, asking Maude's help with a sick child, a fevered woman, or a difficult childbirth.

Her mother would always pack her basket with the right herbs and medicines, grab her shawl, and go off in the cart. When Moira came into her teens, Maude would take her along. While Moira was supposed to be learning more of muggles and their lives, their ailments and needs, and how she could be of service to them, she learned only contempt for them.

Moira's was a dark beauty, dark of hair and eye, though pale and clear of skin like moonlight. The older she became, the more beautiful she grew. He found muggles to be weak, and thought them stupid. She grew to hate their men, as she went along to tend a sick child and would see a black-eyed wife turn away from her piercing gaze hurriedly. She had a talent for using the crystal ball her mother kept, and she often observed village life through it. Her mother encouraged this, thinking it would aid her learning. It did indeed, but not as her mother had hoped.

As now she sat, recovering in her chair with her tea, she considered whether to gaze in the crystal for a time. It relaxed her, it excited her. In the late hours of the night she could find anything from passion, to terror, to violence in the atmosphere surrounding the village, and home in on its source to satisfy her emotional hunger. Tonight, while the thought of it made her smile wanly, she decided simply to retire for the night and recover her strength.

The village was spared their nightmares for another night...


	5. A Meeting of Old Friends

Chapter Five – A Meeting of Old Friends

Wilfred walked smartly up the entrance path to his parents' homestead at the Farm, with his bottle of _Chateau Cos d'Estournel, 1986_, tucked gently but securely under his arm. He knew this quality red wine from Bordeaux would complement his mother's meat course no matter what she had decided to prepare.

Before he could reach for the bell, the door was opened to him by a small house elf, impeccably dressed as a butler. Well, but for the bare feet, at least.

"Good evening, sir," said his greeter, with a slight bow.

"Evening, Jenkins," replied Wilfred with grave dignity, winning his battle with the terrible laugh up his nose that he always fought when dealing with Jenkins. Decades earlier, Jenkins had become fascinated with the concept of the "butler", as the perfect domestic. Over the years he had acquired every English book of fact or fiction, and more recently, every movie, video, or television recording that could possibly enhance his studies. As his acquaintance grew his style had refined such that Jenkins had now attained absolute perfection in the art of butlering, circa 1939. Wilfred did not have the heart to tell him that current butlers were as much bodyguards as domestics, but let him enjoy his role.

"Here you are," Wilfred said, having set the Bordeaux down on a side table to remove and hand Jenkins his cloak, hat, gloves, and walking stick. Jenkins seemed overjoyed, beneath his dignified expression. Truth be told, Wilfred only brought the hat, gloves, and stick to fulfill Jenkins' hopes. When he had arrived at times carrying nothing, the little elf was visibly disappointed at having nothing to 'help the young master off' with. While the elf had nearly mastered his facial expressions, he'd never quite gotten total control over his ears. The ear tips were a dead giveaway, drooping discernibly when the little butler was disappointed or hurt.

Jenkins handed the belongings joyfully off to a house elf footman standing discretely aside in the foyer, and led the way for the 'young master', as Jenkins still thought of Wilfred, to join his parents and their guests on the patio behind the sitting room. As the rounded the last corner and Jenkins opened the glass door to the patio, Wilfred was surprised and pleased to see that he and Draden were not the only guests for the evening.

"Well, hail and well met, brethren!" Wilfred exclaimed, as everyone rose to greet him and he beheld not only his family and Draden, but Severus Snape as well. "This _is_ a surprise, but what a pleasure!" as smiles and handshakes were exchanged all round, with hug and double kisses with his mother.

"A totally beguiling new frock, Mother. And this is for dinner," Wilfred said, handing the wine to his mother, and spinning her in a gentle pirouette to model the full skirts of her new dress.

"Oh how lovely," said she, examining the label and showing it to Jason, her husband. "This will be wonderful with the lamb." She gently passed the bottle to the quiet Jenkins, knowing it would be properly chilled to cellar temperature by the time the meal was served.

"I thought I'd be seeing you soon at the shop, Severus," Wilfred said, turning towards the potions master, as he eased over to a most comfortable patio chair. "Thought you'd be stocking up for the coming year and dropping off your ingredient list so I can be sure to have our stock up to date for the madding crowds." He collapsed into the comfortable armchair and enjoyed the cool shade of the covered porch looking out on a formal garden that rivaled the best in the kingdom.

Noticing Jenkins hovering discretely, he said, "Just a lemonade for now, if you please, Jenkins."

"So to what do I owe the pleasure? Not that it's not truly always a pleasure to get together with two of my best friends any time we can," and he smiled warmly at his two Hogwarts classmates, reflecting on their unique bonds and fellowship across the years.

While they had been contemporaries of the so-called "Marauders", they had not been friends with that foursome. If anything, the bond among Dreden, Severus, and Wilfred was forged by their mutual enmity with that group. He looked at Severus, with his pale clear complexion and raven black shining hair, often called 'greasy', but actually just thickened with the unmistakable sheen and associated with close contact with arsenic in his early years. Snape sat in casual gray summer robes sipping a fruit drink, doubtless wincing at some of the memories always conjured from these meetings.

Draden, on the other hand, seemed not to have aged much. He sat smiling in his brightly colored lightweight robes, shaking his head at his friends. He seemed cheerfully oblivious to his thinning hair, receding hairline, and the increasing strength of his eyeglass prescription. While nature seemed determined to age the man, he was quite unwilling to acknowledge her progress in the least.

These three were, without a doubt, the most brilliant potions experts to tread the halls of Hogwarts since Dumbledore himself. And that was saying quite a lot. And_, mirabile dictu_, very few realized the power of that. Almost none realized that Draden was so expert. He worked in the Ministry of Magical Creatures as a mid-level administrator, tracking, scheduling, and supervising the exploration and care of dangerous life forms in which the Ministry took an interest. Charlie Weasley was one of his newest staff acquisitions, and seemed to be settling in nicely. Few, even on the Hogwarts staff, recalled that he took an O level in Potions and excelled on his NEWTS. Snape's outspoken mastery, and the taunting that drew attention to his activities, combined with the quiet over competence of their contemporary, Muggworth, managed to mask his achievements in most people's minds quite effectively. At the time, it was a bit vexing but 'no big deal' as the young people say nowadays, since Draden's real passion was dangerous creatures, and he was unrivaled in his reputation for excellence there. Even botany and herbology were of interest, when they ventured into the dangerous.

They had each been the butt of various Marauder pranks and jokes. Each had been more than somewhat a 'loner'. It was inevitable, as they grew in skill and animosity towards the marauding foursome, that they would draw together as friends and share their skills for a bit of revenge from time to time. Upon later reflection there were moments when they regretted some of these acts, especially now with stirrings of the Dark Lord's presence seeming to surface by degrees, and their unwavering determination to aid the cause of the Phoenix movement. But they didn't regret them very much, nor very often.

"So what say, Snap? Been brewing any fame, or bottling much glory lately?" Draden quipped. Snap was Severus' nickname from school days, just among themselves, so dubbed for his sarcastic wit and ability to retort at the speed of light. Even as a boy Severus had no patience with the dull-witted, and his tongue often overran his good judgment in groups. He soon learned to avoid groups.

"Shut up, Dread," Snape answered, smiling, "you're only jealous of my first year opening speech."

"Jealous? Of what? I _wrote_ that speech, and you copped it!" Draden laughed.

"Bollux!", exclaimed Snape.

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute! We ALL contributed to that speech, thank you very much! It was in the Potions Lab, that afternoon we did Potter in for the 40 point day. You must admit, it was one of our greatest triumphs. But you," pointing to Dread, "said you wanted to brew fame. You, Snape, wanted to bottle glory. I," as he looked down and hesitated for a moment, "said I wanted to put a stopper in death," as an uncomfortable silence descended on the room for a moment.

"Anyway, we've ALL contributed to your little speech, and I think it scans quite well. But the potion we brewed that day..." his eyes twinkled as they all smiled remembering the prank... "that was as good a bit of mayhem as we ever pulled."

His father, Jason, cleared his throat dramatically, and put on his best paternal accent, saying, "gentlemen, I think you had best come across with the story. I've never heard of this little escapade."

"Oh, er... Well, Father. It really wasn't that much..."

"Now now, no backing out now, one of you had better tell us what happened," as he and his wife Katrina sat back smiling, to enjoy a moment of humor at their son's expense.

These three grown men, dignified experts in their fields renowned the world over, suddenly found themselves stammering and rapidly trying to apply damage control. It was as if they were magically transported back to a time of short academic robes and proctors, explaining themselves in front of a professor. Quite automatically, both Severus and Wilfred found themselves staring at Douglas Draden to make the explanations. His nickname "Dread" came from the fact that when revenge was called for, he was generally the one with the most foul and useful ideas.

"Well, sir, we had some differences of, er... viewpoint and opinion with a group of classmates, and each of us had suffered greatly from the verbal abuse of one of the boys, Potter, James Potter," Draden began.

"Potter? Wasn't he the one? Isn't the boy Potter his son?" asked Katrina, putting pieces together in her mind. "I've seen in _The Daily Prophet_ that he started at Hogwarts, last year, didn't he?"

Snape visibly winced, "Yes, Katrina, he did. The 'Boy Who Lived', an instant celebrity among the Gryffindors and most of the children there. _Just_ like his father, all attitude."

"Anyway, as I was saying," Draden continued, glaring at Snape, "we decided the Potter's mouth could use an overhaul. So we planned a Saturday afternoon in the Potions Lab, when all the rest of Hogwarts were out watching a critical Quidditch match. We had less than no interest in Quidditch, and these were the best opportunities for the us to commandeer the supplies and equipment we needed to work on some projects they we to complete.

"That long ago afternoon, we synthesized a vocal reversing potion, "_Contravocem", _to use on Potter. As you know, when swallowed in small amounts causes the victim to hear and manage the volume of their voice in reverse. So when the speaker meant to and thought they were whispering, they would shout. And when they were trying to be heard, their voice would fall away perhaps to nothing."

"Boys!" Katrina gasped, in a mocking shocked voice. "I _am _surprised at _you _all! I cannot believe that you would use your skills to intentionally poison one of your classmates."

"But we did not, fair lady," Draden continued, hand on his heart with a look of the most abject innocence on his face. "Oh no, what happened was simple justice, both poetic and otherwise. We contrived to acquire a peach from the kitchens. It was huge, juicy, totally gorgeous. We filled it with our potion, and at breakfast Monday morning Severus kept it alongside his place. When we all finished eating, and had that bit of time to study before first class, Severus worked intensely on drawing this peach, as though for herbology class.

"We watched Potter and his other friends noticing Snape's activity, and plotting how to ruin his assignment. We just waited, trying to pay no attention, knowing that if we did not give the show away _one_ of them were certain to fall for the bait. There was really never a question of 'whether'. The only question was 'how long?'.

"And who!" laughed Severus, thinking back on that morning. "You could almost smell the bubbling cauldrons, as they pondered what to do."

"One moment," interrupted Jason, "this peach in question, wouldn't happen to have been..."

"Yes, Father," Wilfred hung his head in mock shame, "one of your prize winning Cassandra Special peaches. "But!" he added looking up brightly, pointing his finger upright to emphasize his next words, "bear in mind it was only because we needed the _very best bait _we could possibly have for this plan. We ate and enjoyed the rest. Honestly!"

"Pfft!" Jason muttered, almost _sotto voce_. But still he smiled as he sat back to listen.

"If I may continue..." Draden glared at Severus and Wilfred for the interruptions, "it was finally Potter who sauntered over, looking over Severus' shoulder for a moment as he seemed to be working intently, and said...

"Well, Snivellis... what an excellent drawing. Wonderful peach you're drawing there... looks good enough to eat! I can't resist..." and he reached across, grabbed the peach and took a huge bite from it.

We all started to protest and look affronted, as he gobbled about six more chunks from it, dribbling juice from his chin.

"All right, all right... THERE, I'll give it back," he said, flopping the remaining chunk and pit back onto the table as he walked back to his seat laughing and wiping his face with his sleeve. He and his friends were laughing like lunatics and pointing at us as we packed up our things and exited in a state of high dudgeon. We had to get out in a hurry, before we lost it. We barely got outside out of earshot before we broke up in hysterics.

"Now, kind sir and lady... I leave it to you. I submit that we did NOTHING to Potter. Whatever happened, he did to himself," and so saying Draden looked at Wilfred and Severus' nodding smiles, sat back in his seat and took a long pull on his cool drink.

"I... see... Well, yes. I take your point," Jason replied, as a hint of a smile played across his face. "And what was the result of this little 'breakfast'?"

"That was the best part, Father," Wilfred could not help but interject. "Every time Potter tried to make one of his snide little comments about the professors in class, his voice would boom across the room. Sirius and Remus were trying to crawl under their desks. When the professors would confront Potter, with the predictable.. 'I beg your pardon, what did you say?'... Potter's voice would drop to a mumble. It was classic! Gryffindor lost 40 points that day in only 4 class periods."

All three of the houseguests dissolved in uncontrollable laughter as they remembered. Were a "high five" a wizard custom, it would have been done right there and then.

They had just brought themselves back under control when Jenkins stepped in to announce, in his most dignified tones, "Dinner... is served." The three of them looked at one another and exploded in laughter again. It was quite hopeless. Together they limped into the dining room.


	6. From Soup to Nuts

Chapter Six – Dinner and Port

Dinner at Muggworth Manor was an event never to be missed if that could be avoided. Between being apothecarians, herbologists, and purveyors of fine teas and herbs, the family sense of 'taste' was honed to near perfection. Their chef was renowned throughout the wizarding world, and had contributed many of the recipes currently in use at the Tea Shoppe, as well as deriving benefit from the generations before.

Jenkins served each course with funereal courtesy, despite Wilfred and Draden's frequent bouts with suppressed giggles. Katrina actually had to glare at them more than once, with a severe, "Boys... please!" as she fought her own smile. Actually, it did her heart good to see these responsible men, nearing serious middle age, so relaxed with one another and family that they could revert a bit to boyhood. Out in their real worlds, each had to carry a load of dignity and respect, with others depending on their judgment for their safety or even their lives. It was very nice, she thought, to keep a safe place for them, where they could just relax.

Even "poor Severus", as Katrina thought of him, could relax here, though she never had to scold him. Snape had gained such control over his expressions and voice that only his eyes betrayed laughter if he wanted to hide it. This was one of the few places she knew he had ever been truly happy. Here, and at Hogwarts. As a teenager, Wilfred had sometimes succeeded in bringing Severus here on holiday in the spring and winter. Here, there was only merriment and light when Wilfred was home on holiday. Severus had seemed rather pathetically grateful, though very awkward trying to express gratitude, for simple Christmas gifts or treats. She had a feeling he did not come from a very loving home. She was always happy to see him here.

He was telling them about one of his students, as they ate their soup.

"He's a positive menace, I tell you," Snape chuckled. "You should recruit him when he graduates, Dread. Put him in some 'Ministry of Blowing Things Up', and send him to somewhere you want destroyed."

"Sounds interesting, Snap," Draden smiled, "what's the name of my would-be protoge?"

"Finnigan... Seamus Finnigan," Snape replied with a shudder. "I must admit, few things frighten me. But watching Seamus Finnigan enter Potions Class frightens me each and every session. I ask you, have you ever known anyone who could explode _water_? He's been known to ignite one of Professor Flitwick's ostrich feathers just attempting levitation. The boy doesn't even need a cauldron or flame. His wand is sufficient. Giving him access to my dungeon laboratory is like throwing dynamite into a bonfire."

"You're kidding, right? He hasn't really ignited water?" Wilfred looked a bit aghast.

"Only exaggerating slightly. It was not 'water', it was 'pumpkin juice'. And he did not 'ignite' it, he _detonated_ it. It exploded with searing heat, soot, and smoke."

"What was he doing, just looking at it?" Wilfred laughed.

"I believe he was wand-waving at it, attempting to transform it to rum, in the middle of the Dining Hall one morning," Snape answered, finishing his broth, and leaning back as Jenkins solemnly removed his bowl.

"So... how is he doing in potions?" Dread asked.

"I haven't decided yet. He passed last year, without successfully turning in a single assignment potion. I've actually watched him follow every single step properly, and seen every project blow up. It's a bit of a mystery really. I dare not fail him, or Minerva will send him to me for extra work and tutoring. I'm afraid he'd kill me. As it is, I throw a containment spell around his cauldron every time, to save him and other students. Even first years work with reagents they do not need to 'wear' for the rest of the day."

"Hmmm," Wilfred pondered. "A bit of rage, you think, Mother?" he looked inquiringly at Katrina.

"Sounds like it may be," she smiled. "But given the age group it's so hard to tell. It's like poltergeists, dear Severus. I suspect the explosive effect will wear off with time and puberty. He may be adjusting to using a wand for the first time also. Just give it some time, and I'm sure he'll gain better control."

"I hope so, Katrina," Snape smiled. _"If he doesn't kill us all first",_ he thought aloud, though much under his breath.

"And speaking of poltergeists, old friend, how is my favorite troublemaker Peeves doing these days?" Draden asked.

Snape grimaced, "Oh, don't remind me. He's every bit as annoying as ever, thank you. If anything, he's worse. Nothing like a couple hundred adolescents to energize an annoying spirit. He and Filch engage in nearly daily battle, punctuated only by the moments they conspire together against students. At least he stays out of my dungeons."

"How do you manage that, Sev? I thought he enjoyed throwing things about in all the instructors' offices at least once a year?" Draden asked.

"He skips the dungeons now," Snape responded, settling in to enjoy his wonderful entree of roast lamb with new potatoes, sauteed vegetables, and Wilfred's fine wine.

"Why... does he skip the dungeons now?" Draden asked, sensing a good story.

"Because five years ago, I waited for him to violate my sanctum, and set containment spells on all his exits. I then immobilized him and stuck him into a bottle, stoppered and charmed to hold him. I set his bottle on the class laboratory supply shelf for one full day, letting him watch all that was happening totally unable to move. At the end of his 'detention', I released him with the warning that if I caught him there again, I would bottle him and use him as an ingredient. He seems to have taken the warning to heart. I've not seen him down my stairs again."

"I've got to be getting out to Hogwart's soon," Draden said, a look of remembrance in his eyes, and a slight smile on his face. "I need to see my favorite gameskeeper."

"Hagrid?" Snape looked up in astonishment. "You're going to come to see _Hagrid?_"

"Oh, yes, Sev," Draden replied. "He is one of my favorite contacts. I often send him young creatures to 'foster' for me, raising them until I know what to do with them. There are tremendous advantages to being a half-giant with a heart as big as your shoe size. He's really the kindest person I know. Well, present company excepted, of course," he smiled at Katrina and Jason.

"But... but... Hagrid is such an... er..." Snape struggled for a word that would not seem rude. Defeated, he just took another bite of dinner instead of going on.

"Well yes, Severus. Hagrid is definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But it really doesn't matter. He is truly excellent at what he does. He taught, and still teaches me, to be honest, a great deal about dangerous creatures. He seems to connect with them on a level that I have never attained. I suspect he has secrets in that Forest that he's never even shared with ME. And he was the most faithful and stalwart encourager I had as a student, other than you and this family. Who, do you imagine, allowed me to handle half the creatures I used for my NEWT thesis? The 'professor'?? Hardly!" Draden finished with a snort.

"And speaking of NEWTs, by the way, how was your summer trekking with Hogwarts honors students, this summer?" Wilfred guided the conversation to his parents, as they carried the stream through the end of the main course.

"So it was a very successful expedition, and your students did very well indeed," concluded Jason.

"Jenkins," Katrina spoke to the almost-hovering butler, "I think we'll have dessert and coffee in the sitting room. And there will be three more guests coming for dessert." She turned towards the table once again. "I have a bit of surprise, at least for a couple of you," she nodded at Draden. "Shall we all repair to the sitting room?"

All rose, and she led the way.

----------------------------

A/N: Please Review! I would love to hear what you think of Jenkins, and this point of view for Professor Snape. Constructive criticism always welcome. I am interested in your ideas, suggestions and speculations. Thanks -- Mort.


	7. Unexpected Guests

Chapter Seven – The Unexpected Guests

Katrina entered the formal living room, a warm comfortable space done in silks and velvets, using warm earth tones punctuated by marble accents. She walked to a broad fireplace with cheery fire crackling merrily beneath a marble mantlepiece. As the clock began to chime the nine o'clock hour, a puff of green smoke announced the arrival of Albus Dumbledore, followed closely by Phineas and Penelope Muggworth – known to Wilfred as "The Grans". Greetings, kisses, hugs, and hearty handshakes were exchanged all round.

Dumbledore, after embracing Katrina, spun her as Wilfred had done, saying, "my dear, I believe you grow younger and more lovely each year. As does," he turned to Penelope, "the delightful Penny as well," he beamed as he took them one on each arm and escorted them to their seats. "Phineas, my old friend, you look fit enough to wrestle a dragon," he said, beaming. They were all comfortably seated as Jenkins served dessert and beverage of choice from a variety of options ranging from coffee to brandy.

"Isn't this lovely?" Katrina commented, as they all settled in. "That will be all for now, Jenkins. Thank you. We'll ring if we need anything."

"Very well, Mistress," Jenkins replied, bowing, as he backed out and closed the door behind him.

"He's so precious," Grandmama Penny laughed, watching Jenkins exit.

"Yes, he is," Katrina nodded and laughed. "I don't know how we would manage without him. But, now that we are all here, I think Draden has a little story for us. And he needed a private place to discuss it. Well, Draden, we're all ears," she smiled, as she made her way through a delightful slice of chocolate trifle.

"Thank you, Katrina. First, let me tell you and Jason how much I appreciate your hospitality. This has always been like a second home to me, and having a safe haven to meet with such wonderful friends only makes it doubly so. Thank you.

"Second, may I impose upon everyone here immediately to cast every charm ye know for security and privacy before I begin," and he paused to consume the remainder of his dessert as Albus, Phineas, Penelope, Wilfred and Snape drew their wands and took him at his word. Katrina did not have her wand on her new frock, and he knew no weakness in security would survive the attentions of those seeing to it.

"Thank you," Draden began, when all had finished. "Pardon me interrupting such delights as this dessert, and pray continue now. It is important, however, that our privacy for the next few minutes be absolute, even from the Ministry.

"It is an interesting time, as you all know. It would appear that the Dark Lord is again attempting to manifest, former Death Eaters are showing disturbing tendencies to old ways, young Potter has begun his career at Hogwarts," Draden paused and smiled as Snape grimaced, "and there is quite a bit of... ahem... _maneuvering_ at the Ministry.

"A good number of Ministry personnel, particularly among the Aurors, want us to shift to something of an 'Alert' status, maintaining a high level of surveillance and preparing for the potential return of the Dark Lord. In the opposing camp are perhaps superior numbers hoping to maintain the status quo, officially adopting a 'wait and see' attitude, but in reality just holding a 'wait and hope' stance, refusing to see or acknowledge any report or information that could possibly threaten their rosy optimism.

"I realize this is all old news to ye, but I needed to explain our extraordinary need for security around the matters under discussion. While many many of us are trying to remain very alert to any whispers of the Dark Lord's stirrings, others, particularly some very highly placed, are doing their very best to turn a deaf ear. I don't need to tell you who is who, but what I'm about to tell you is being very severely ignored, indeed. I've been told, in no uncertain terms, to drop this matter and leave it to my elders and betters to 'take care of'. Read that: 'modify memories as necessary, cover up, and ignore as long as possible.'"

"Well, whatever is wrong, dear? What's happening?" Katrina asked with concern, laying aside her plate and fork, and looking to see that everyone had drinks on hand. Noting that all was well, she turned back to Draden.

"Well," said Draden, rising from his seat and walking over to lean on the marble mantle of the huge and cheery fireplace, "not to put to fine a point on it, people have been disappearing. Muggles, to be precise. First they disappear, then they're found dead."

"My dear boy," Albus began, as Phineas smiled, knowing he was the only man in the room not a 'dear boy' to Albus, "surely the disappearance and death of muggles, unfortunate and regrettable as that may be, does not constitute a crisis for the wizarding world, does it?" Albus looked concerned and curious, not condescending, as he voiced this view.

"No, professor. But I've not made myself clear. I don't mean they simply cannot be located. I mean they _disappear_. The statements of muggle witnesses, usually family members or close friends, report that the victims seem uncomfortable, short of breath, sweaty and the discomfort increases to the point the witnesses thought the victim was having a heart attack. And then, the victim disappears into thin air. They cannot be heard, seen, or felt. The families don't really know what to do, and they're understandably reluctant to go to the muggle authorities with such a story. But then, within three days, the victim is found somewhere else but nearby, dead. Not only dead, but completely mummified, exsanguinated and dessicated."

"No blood?" Wilfred asked.

"Not a drop. What's more, no moisture whatever, not even inside the tooth pulp or bone marrow. Quite amazing actually. It would be a most interesting puzzle, if it weren't quite so hideous," Draden smiled as he looked over the group. "The Ministry monitors police reports of course, and began to investigate this when the disappearance factor began to appear in a number of cases. Arthur Weasley was consulted, to determine if anything of muggle lore could explain disappearance during some form of heart attack or other illness. When he could not, he started looking into the full cases and, finding the mummification even more astonishing, referred the matter to me, thinking some magical creature must be involved.

"I must confess, ladies and gentlemen, I am quite totally at a loss," Draden spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

"How many cases have there been?" Wilfred asked.

"Fifteen, so far," Draden answered. "The memory modification department have had their hands full. There has been no sign of magical activity that Ministry surveillance has been able to detect. No spells, enchantments, charms, or conjuring involved that can be determined. The victims just faded away in front of what witnesses there have been, no sign of disapparating, sound or smoke. All that seems to be known is that the victims seem to be experiencing discomfort similar to a heart attack, then they disappear, then up to three days later they are found dead drained of every blood cell and water molecule.

"Well, we do know one other thing," and at this point he looked pointedly at Phineas and Penelope. "We know that the day before at least five of the disappearances, the victims were seen to inhale what seemed like a small pink cloud of what appeared to be smoke. Pinkish-red smoke."

"What concerns me most is the pattern of these deaths. The first we've been able to uncover was in Ireland one month ago. One week later there were two more, one in the area of Glasgow and one near Dumfries. Two weeks ago there were four deaths, two in Scotland, one near Liverpool, and one in Wales. Last week..."

"Don't tell me," interrupted Snape, "eight deaths."

"Quite correct, I'm afraid. Always exactly seven days apart. Thus far there's been quite a bit of distance between the deaths. The National Health Service is being closely monitored. Their theory is a virus, virulant form of flu. Lot's of memory modification involved in that. No muggles are left with clear evidence of the mummifications. But we need to prevent them from looking into this too closely, or attempting to develop a vaccine.

"Still," Penelope interrupted, thinking aloud, "the model is a good one. Binary replication, one week incubation, geographic separation, as though claiming new domain. Infection model fits well."

"Indeed. Well, when I got the information 10 days ago I did some research to find anything that could explain this. I came up with nothing. So I hunted through the archives extensively. The only reports I could find that even _remotely_ rang any chord, was one from 20 years ago written by..."

"Me," finished Phineas. "Pink-red cloud and vampirism or dessication. The Vampiric Mist."

"Indeed," and Draden sat down.

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A/N Please review! I have a plan for where this goes, but I am interested in readers' ideas, suggestions, and speculations. Constructive criticism welcome. -- Mort.


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